The Conspirator's Agenda Read online

  ***

  Nick despised everything about Scully’s because of its obvious clichés, the things that you’d imagine a cop bar being, but not expect to be real. It reminded Nick of a movie set. The highlight of the place was definitely the owner, Dom Farrone. Dom put up with the lot of the cops because they were good tippers and his place was assured of a certain amount of security from problems due to them being cops. That was good; however, that didn’t mean he was opposed to doing whatever he could to bring the ones that were real pigs down when given the chance. He and Nick shared a vigorous dislike for Avery, and that was what Nick was going to count on tonight in order to do a little surveillance on the man.

  With one call to Dom, Nick told him what he needed. Ten minutes later, Nick had climbed up a fire escape ladder to the second floor, and was sneaking down to the supply room, which was a one way mirror in which he could check out what was happening. He wished he’d thought of bugging Avery’s usual table earlier, but he’d just have to do with what he had.

  The bar was fairly bright inside, and all the pool tables were being used, some guys were playing darts, and others were just sitting up at the bar having drinks. Women of all sorts were gathered around. A few were actually the wives of the cops, or at least a portion of them that Nick knew were, and the rest were a variety of women of all ages. There were definitely some younger women there, ones that looked more designed for clubbing, not hanging out with halfway out of shape cops and detectives. Half of them would be just as scrawny as Nick if they had their fat layers shaved off.

  It took a few minutes, but Nick honed in on Avery in the corner. Instead of being at his usual table, he was standing, leaning against a wall by the pool table area, and had one hand leaning on the wall, and the other on the waist of a young brunette…definitely not his wife, who was a considerably older woman who thrived on bleach blonde hair as her preferred look of choice.

  Dom came back to check on Nick, and he couldn’t help but ask. “Who’s the one with Avery right now?”

  “I don’t know. He’s had quite an array of girls here lately. All young. All brunette. All beautiful. And apparently all interested in him…although that one is difficult to figure out. Detectives must make a lot more money these days than I’d have ever imagined.”

  “Me too. And I’ve only been officially uncertified for two months.”

  “Need anything?”

  “No, this is interesting enough.” As Nick watched Avery he naturally started to draw some conclusions that he hadn’t considered to be more than circumstantial just a few hours earlier. One: Avery had a propensity for young brunettes. Two: Avery was acting different…midlife crisis maybe? Three: Two young brunettes had been killed, and had the letters A and V carved in their right legs. It was too obvious, but it was interesting. Especially when you factored in Avery’s insistence on Nick not investigating the case, and Max only releasing autopsy results to him. Or the latest, not bothering to do them at all.

  Avery may be a jackass, but he was smart. If he was killing people he wouldn’t be leaving clues like that unless he wanted to get caught. One thing that is the same with cops throughout the world is that they don’t want to get caught and sent to prison. They are not treated particularly well there, and end up going through a major ego deflation as a result of becoming the sniveling little complainer on the block, or worse yet—the warden’s informant.

  Yet, something seemed to be there. Nick decided it was time to do some detective harassing, not enough to scare—just make aware. It was 1 a.m. and he knew that Avery would be leaving soon. The curious question would be if it was alone, or with the young lady he was so obviously fond of. Nick slipped back up the stairs, out the window, and down the fire escape stairs. He was going to hide down the street, near where he saw Avery’s car parked, and see what happened.

  Just like clockwork, Avery did make his way out to the car and the young girl was on his arm. They were laughing, and she was giggling, like every word he said was witty. Nick nodded, thinking that his words were far more likely to be dim witted, than witty.

  As Avery was ready to open the passenger door for the young lady, Nick popped out. “Well Avery, imagine seeing you here.”

  Avery jumped, startled by Nick’s voice suddenly booming out. “L…L…Larkman.” He looked at Nick and it was easy to see his glare.

  “Who’s this lovely lady?”

  “Hi there. I’m N…”

  Avery cut her off. “This is my niece…Nancy.”

  “I thought you family guys liked to keep your loved ones away from hang-outs like Scully’s. You detectives have quite the amorous reputation.”

  “Well, she’s visiting from out of town, and I just wanted to show her the old uncle’s hang-out. I’m her godfather, you know.”

  “Why, no I didn’t.” He is a crappy liar. This guy could never pull off a murder.

  The entire time that Nick was getting under Avery’s skin he kept looking at the so-called Nancy. She was quiet and uncomfortable now, no longer enchanted by the mythical charm of Avery. “Well, we’ve got to get going home. Nancy has an early flight out, and she needs to be well rested.”

  “I’m sure Aubrey will make sure she’s well taken care of.” Nick smiled. Aubrey was Avery’s wife, and he looked at him with a bigger growl than before. Antics such as this were the exact reason that so many of the detectives despised Larkman when he’d been on the force. The lady detectives appreciated his candor and direct mannerisms, but not the guys. The more Nick was who he was, the more they all sent around murmurs that he must be gay—he was too out of conformity with the other guys. He was nothing more than a quota requirement to make it look like the force was accepting of all sorts of people. At times, it suited Nick well and he played it to his advantage when he wanted something.

  “Who’s Aubrey?” so-called Nancy asked.

  “His wife. You don’t know your aunt?” Nick couldn’t stop himself. He laughed aloud, and decided to walk away. There was no need to see Avery crumble now because he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do. There would likely be some sort of retaliation, but that was nothing new, or unexpected. In fact, it was the very reason that Nick didn’t go through any particular efforts to decorate his apartment, or make it look nice. What was the point?

  Nick didn’t expect the retaliation to happen quite so quickly though. By the time he got home he found a little surprise waiting for him. His entire place had been trashed, and his beloved Gentleman Jack was smashed on the floor, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Hatchet was lying in the corner in a small black ball, lifeless. Nick rushed over, and leaned down, agonizing over the harsh reality of his cat’s fate. Whoever had done this knew the one way to really hurt him, and it fueled him with anger, and a desire to avenge Hatchet. Granted, Hatchet was actually Hatchet the 4th. It seemed that people who wanted to hurt Nick had discovered that getting to his cats was the best way to do it. He’d considered stopping buying cats, but he shouldn’t have to do that in order to remove a threat. Those who were threatened by him would just find some other way to get to him, and he didn’t want that either. There were other painful things that would work, and he didn’t want anyone trying to discover what they were.

  As Nick put Hatchet’s remains in a shoe box he heard a noise behind him. He looked around and saw a guy there with a gun. He wasn’t familiar, and he didn’t bother disguising the way he looked either. That meant that he was operating on one assumption—he was going to kill Nick so it didn’t matter if he saw him.

  “Don’t do anything rash, Larkman. I know exactly how you operate.”

  “Well then you’d know that I am rather fond of the rush of an adventure, don’t you.”

  The guy nodded.

  “You’re rather confident, aren’t you?” Nick was trying to assess the guy as quickly as possible so he could determine his best option. He couldn’t stand guns, and although he missed the
bullet most of the time there was always a chance—as the three bullet hole scars on his body has proven.

  Now the guy snorted. His hand was steady and his voice unwavering. He was definitely someone comfortable with the notion of blowing someone’s head off and walking away like it was no big deal. “Let’s just say, I’d be shocked if you could beat me out. Yah, I’ve heard that you have certain skills and an ability to weasel out of situations, but that doesn’t bother me. I’d like to see you try, and then I’d like to smile as you whimper for redemption from the barrel of my gun.”

  “Nice prose. I like your style,” Nick said. “Before you off me can I at least go bury my cat in the dumpster. Are you the one who did this to Hatchet?”

  “Killing cats is for the weak minded. I’m above that.”

  Nick got up, like he was fully prepared to have the guy follow him and go bury Hatchet in the dumpster. He took one swift step forward and slowly lifted the lid of the shoe box up, lunging forward like he was tripping. Hatchet went flying through the air and landed on the big guy’s face, giving him quite a startle.

  The guy reeled back, and Nick extended out a thrust kick to the solar plexus, keeping the backward progress rolling. The guy landed on his back, smacking his head on the desk chair on his way down. Then Nick charged him, smashing his wrist with the heel of his boot, causing him to release the gun. Nick picked up the gun and pointed it in the guy’s face. “What’s the barrel of your gun look like from this perspective?”

  “Like I’m screwed.” The guy chuckled. It was an unexpected answer, and one that showed the guy didn’t fear death. Well, he’d be meeting it at someone else’s hand. Nick didn’t kill people just to do it, even when he could get away with a self-defense case. Instead, he called 911 to come and get the guy. They’d be there quickly since he was a former detective. Before they arrived he wrote down the information on the gun and retrieved a bullet so he could find out who the owner was. Guys like that didn’t register their guns. It was likely stolen, or conveniently borrowed from someone unsuspecting as to his occupation.